


Child Beloved of New Hearts

by dancinbutterfly



Category: Spartacus: Blood and Sand, Spartacus: Vengeance
Genre: Alternate Universe, Kid Fic, M/M, Slash, canon character death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-31
Updated: 2012-05-31
Packaged: 2017-11-06 10:23:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,328
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/417782
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dancinbutterfly/pseuds/dancinbutterfly
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The child Ilythia bore did not go over the cliff with Lucretia but was instead saved by his desperate mother. After the victory of Vesuvius is over, Agron finds the crying infant and Ilythia's corpse. Once he has the babe in arms, he finds he cannot let go.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Child Beloved of New Hearts

After the final battle against Glaber at the foot of Vesuvius is over, Agron is the first one into the courtyard so he is the one who finds the infant whimpering in the dirt. It is wrapped in a filthy blue swaddling cloth, clutched in the rigger grip of his mother at the edge of the cliff. Along with the child, Ilythia's fingers grip a piece of the blue fabric that does not match that is nearly four feet long. All of this is blood stained, a nightmare framing the purity of the baby in her hands. 

Ilythia's dead eyes stare at her child, tears dried on her face. Her lips are parted to speak something, Agron knows not what. Yet he is not surprised to see that even in death her jaw is set in determination. For her child, he thinks, for Spartacus' child. Something happened here, in the last moments of her life, something violent and ugly that tore cloth and shed blood. What came to pass here cost Glaber's woman her life but kept an innocent babe alive to see through night fall and soon, the sun rise its first day of life. 

He sits on his heels in the dust and tears a strip of pink linen from her dress that is not soaked with blood. With it, he wipes afterbirth and blood from the child's face until it is clean and dry. Once that is done, Agron frees the child from his dead mother's clutching hands, one stiff finger at a time. He has to break the bones in her middle and fourth fingers on her right and the second and fourth fingers on the left to do so but before long the task is complete. He has removed the death from around the new life.

With careful hands, Agron removes the swaddling from around the baby, checking to see if there is more cleaning needed and in so doing discovers that the infant is a boy. It makes him smile. Their leader has a son, one who will no doubt grow strong as his father and perhaps have the same strength of will and depth of conviction. He rewraps the boy in another swath torn from Ilythia's pink dress – the blue swaddling is soaked in afterbirth – then cradles the mewling boy to the warmth of his bare chest. For the first time, the child quiets.

For a moment, Agron is four years old. He sits on his parents bed, legs crossed, holding Duro for the first time. He remembers that he had to be seated because even at such a young age his brother was already so active, wriggling and noisy. It had made him laugh and smile.

His mother had reached out with a hand that was tired but still steady and strong, landing on his head. "He's yours, Agron" she declared. "He will look up to you and in return you will protect him, love him, guide him as best you can." He had nodded and hugged his baby brother to chest or tried to. He had been small and Duro never stopped moving for an instant. 

Until the day Duro died, Agron had never let failed to care for the brother who had been declared his. Holding this tiny squirming form, that same caring impulse pulses floods through Agron. His mother is long dead so she can make no such decrees. He suspects that were she at his shoulder in this moment, they would not be needed.

Singing a slow song his aunt favored under his breath, a hymn requesting the protection of Frigg for young children, Agron strokes the boy's forehead with a single fingertip. He is so small, so delicate. Already he can see the line of his friend's nose, the strength of his brow.

He doesn't even realize that he is rocking back and forth until a hand lands on his shoulder. He looks up to find Naevia standing over him. Her face is drawn a map of concern.

"What do you find?" she asks. "We are called for final accounting and none have seen you since final battle."

He leans back so she can see the quiet, dark-eyed boy in his arms. "A babe," he says, still stroking the downy crown of his head. "He is the son of Ilythia." Her eyes go wide because she understands. She nods once then takes off on fleet feet, returning with Spartacus in tow.

"Agron, Naevia says you have great need of me. What is it?"The man is soaked in blood, as are they all, but the weariness in his eyes does not match the triumph he should be feeling. We have much to do and need to make haste away from here."

'Your son yet lives, Spartacus," Agron says, tilting his arms upward and out though not so far that he does not lose his secure hold. "I thought that our liberator might want to meet the newest member of our company."

When Spartacus looks down at the baby and actually flinches. "He has the unfortunate look of his mother about him," he says, his voice ragged. 

"Really?" Agron asks. "I see nothing but his father's brow, nose and jaw. His mother, feckless Roman bitch though she may have been, used last breath to keep him from death. Is that not honorable among women of any tribe?"

Naevia bites her lip but she nods. It springs free her teeth then she speaks. "It is likely the only noble thing she has done in her life yet noble it is."

"The boy is still hers so how noble can it be?" Spartacus grits out. 

His bitter words sting the adrenaline sharp nerves in Agron that still prickle from the battle. "Do we not owe a babe the same chance we give to the slaves we free?" he demands. "Are you not the one always warning us of decisions that make us like our enemies?"

Spartacus rubs his face with a bloody hand, smearing his already gore-covered face. "Agron," he sighs.

"Heed your own words, Sparatcus. Judging the baby on unfortunate lineage rather than the character and choices he will grow into as a man makes you just like the Roman dogs you hate."

Spartacus closes his eyes and turns his head towards the cliff. When he opens them again, his eyes light on Ilythia's corpse. "Apologies. I did not mean that. I cannot," he croaks. "I know the boy is not at fault but I cannot call him son. " He blinks up at the heavens and when he turns back to Agron there is shame and pain in his eyes.

"Then at least do not call him an abomination," Agron snaps. "For while he may not be the former, he is certainly not the latter."

"I know that," Spartacus says, head bowed in hsame and sadness. "I do and I also know that you must now think me less a man but I cannot claim him as my own. His mother's hand guided Glaber in the destruction of all I ever loved. My heart is not so great as to find space to I love him as a father should in the face of the mother's sins. The gods know that I would cut hated heart from chest and give it to this child to make that different yet we all know that such a gesture would achieve nothing."

Agron nods. He understands that, yet the boy is so beautiful, quiet and sweet in his arms. His little hands are reaching out already and his eyes are open and curious, the same blue of all newborns. Agron has never fallen in love so quickly before, not even with Nasir. 

He thinks for a moment before he speaks, a trait he spent a life time trying – and failing – to teach his brother. "I understand your grievance against Glaber, your vengeance rightly sought and now achieved. Yet the child and your refusal to stake claim brings a pressing question to my mind. Would you protest if I called him mine?"

Naevia and Spartacus stare at him. Spartacus, for all his great orations, is struck dumb so Naevia speaks for him. "Speak your meaning more plainly? We are in a state of confusion as to your purpose."

"I would raise him as my son, if you won't have him. Your blood is strong in him Spartacus, noble and good, if imperfect. I would see it nourished by a loving father. If you cannot be that man, grant me opportunity to do so."

"Agron," Spartacus begins, "You are under no obligation-"

He holds up a hand. "This has nothing to do with obligation. You know that my heart belongs to a beauty, Spartacus. There are many things that beauty possesses but a womb is not among of them. Other chances to have a family are not likely to come to me. Given this one, I would raise this child and love him as you can't. You shall be near and if you can find space to forgive, you may know him as well should that be your wish. If that time never comes, that you will know that he is well loved without you." He smiles down at the boy who, he would swear, smiles back. "My heart's desire is to care for this life, to see him grow into a man of as much honor the one whose seed gave him life."

"Agron," Spartacus says again, his voice breaking – a shattered thing like earthenware on a tiled floor. Agron looks up and his leader nods. "Fine. So be it. If that is your wish then he is your son. Yours and, should Nasir choose to raise him with you, his as well. You have my blessing and I will make no claim."

"Grat-"

Spartacus holds up a hand, cutting him off sharply. "No, do not. Do not thank me. Please." He takes his leave, striding across the sand towards the milling rebels. He doesn't look back.

Naevia takes a knee beside him, taking his elbow in both her hands. She helps pull him to his feet and he nods at her. "Gratitude."

"This thing you do," she says with a gentle smile, "It is an act of generosity I have never seen surpassed. You are blessed with a heart so large I have never seen its equal."

Agron doesn't protest or argue. There's no point. With the frequency that she and Crixus make love, they will have their own children soon enough and she'll understand that generosity has nothing to do with it. This is a love - selfish, greedy, and powerful. He wants, covets and now that he has he will not let go.

"Do we have a way to feed the boy? I would not have him escape dying mother's womb only to starve."

Naevia nods. "A nanny goat was found among the livestock. They can live on anything, even twigs and sticks. I shall have Crixus aid me in staking a claim for you and the babe."

"Gratitude."

She glows at him like the moon in the sky. "None required. This is by far the greatest pleasure I have had in many days."

Once he has settled the boy and taken a strand of Ilythia's hair – for while he may have no love for her, she is his son's mother and he may ask for such a token one day – he rises to his feet. From there it is a simple thing to take to the march with the rest, now with his infant son in arms. A mile into the trek to neutral ground that Nasir as at his side. 

He asks for Agron's attention with a gentle elbow and quiet clearing of his throat. The arm not cradling his new son drapes around his lover. When he is touching them both at once, something settles deep in his chest. It is a feeling that has been floating loose in his chest since the Romans burned his home to the ground and killed his kin. The grounding sensation feels like having a family again.

"Word travels quickly down the line of your new acquisition," Nasir muses, a cutting edge of sarcasm lacing his words. He peers over at the infant then up at Agron. "Pray tell. Did you plan to discuss your attachment to another little man with me?"

That tone means absolutely nothing good. He swallows against the nerves and clutches his son closer to his chest. He had hoped for more time to plan this conversation, perhaps another five miles or so to think. "Um… Yes? I-, uh, I did."

"Did you also stop and think what a child would mean to you?" He asks shrugging out from under Agron's arm. "Did you consider the care and time he would require? Your tits lack the milk to suckle him. And when you go out with Spartacus, to bathe in blood and death against the Roman pigs, who will be left to care for the child?" Nasir steps in front of him, bringing them both to a halt in the procession. "I am no longer a meek house slave, Agron. I have proven myself time and again a warrior. I will not be an ignorant wife left home to care for screaming children while an idiot husband charges away into war."

"I would not have you be one,"Agron says and he means it. He cradles both arms around the boy but drops his head to press against Nasir's. "You are my love but I have claimed him as my child, Nasir, and family is all to me. You and he both now are all I have to count as such. I would name him, cherish him, raise him - all with you. My greatest wish is now for my son to be our son. If pressed to make the choice, I would stay behind from a battle to care for our child while you gnash your teeth in the fray like the wild dog I know you to be."

Nasir stares at him, eyes gleaming in the dark. His jaw hangs open half an inch. He opens it a bit further then closes it again, shaking his head before trying again. "Agron, are you certain?"

Agron does not need to pause for thought. He just holds out the child for Nasir, who takes him in arms, looking at him with curious expression. "He is a small, squished little thing. Do all babes look so?"

It makes Agron smile. "Yes. They develop a bit more character when more days pass."

Nasir tilts his head this way, then that. Then he smiles. "All right. Since it seems that everything else is already decided, what would you have us name our little man, then Agron?"

"My brother's name was Duro," Agron says.

"Mine was called Fouad," Nasir says, stroking a knuckle over a cheek Agron knows to be softer than rabbit fur. His grin lights up the night and Agron knows that look to be one of love. He has seen it turned towards him often enough to recognize it instantly.

It is a nice name, rolling off the tongue like all things spoken in Syrian when Nasir says them. "What does it mean?"

"Beloved," Nasir murmurs, not looking up. He wiggles his eyebrows at the child as he speaks. "That was not his given name. No it wasn’t." He taps the tiny nose as he speaks in a tone that he has never used before, playful and strangely repetitive, directed straight at the baby. "He was named Fayz-ul-haqq, at my father's behest. It was too long and so pompous, all about the value mined from honesty or some nonsense. So instead everyone called him Fouad because he was so loved by all."

Agron likes that, both the name and the story. For a moment, the meaning makes him think of Spartacus, his shuttered expression and heart too broken to thaw for the infant born of his body. Agron would see that the boy never know such coldness, never know anything but affection and adoration from his parents, the same that Agron did from his. 

Yes. A name that means _beloved_ is perfect for his baby boy. "Our beloved son, named as such for both our brothers," Agron says. "Fouad he shall be then."

Nasir looks up at him, the down at the boy, his entire face cracked open in a smile that is larger than any Agron has seen on his face before. It is enough to raise the sun at midnight. He is radiant, beautiful. Agron never imaged that his whole world could be boiled down to the form of two people standing before him as a parade of his fellow rebels trudge slowly by. 

"Our son, Fouad." Nasir says, wonder in every word. "The words make the mind dizzy like drinking too much wine on a hot day. You act on impulse, Agron. Act so too often and it will get you into real trouble one day."

Agron grins back. He can't help but feel a bit smug. Not right now. He's a father and a proud one at that. "Not today though."

"No," Nasir agrees, passing Fouad back into the strong embrace of his larger father's loving arms. "Not today. Today your impulsivity brings a blessing beyond imagining."

"He is a marvel."

"And ours," Nasir says again, still stunned. "Fouad is ours."

"Yes," Agron agrees, beginning to walk again. "He is."

Nasir falls into step beside him, slipping an arm through his as much to make contact as to touch the baby. His thumb rubs Agron's wrist, his little finger the swaddling cloth that protects Fouad's tiny body. 

"It's funny," Agron muses, a few miles later after long respite of comfortable quiet. "I find myself far more terrified now then I was climbing the barren cliff face of Vesuvius. The battle is over. We have gained more than we have ever had before, you and I. Should I not be at peace?"

Nasir looks up at him. He studies Agron with those knowing eyes and Agron trusts him to find the answer. He always does. No one can read him like Nasir does. "You had ropes to hold you then, dozens of men and women holding you tight from above. The only risk was that of your own life. "

"And now?"

Nasir drops his head to Agrons shoulder with a soft sigh. "Now there is nothing to hold us up but each other and we have everything. We have each other, Fouad and hope for a future that is more than blood and death. That is a far greater thing to fear losing than your life, don't you think?"

"I think that I love you."

"And I you yet you did not answer my question."

"You know you are right. Why should I answer when it is always so?"

"To give me the pleasure of confirmation," Nasir declares. "Let me hold him. Your arms grow tired."

"They do not."

"They do. He is my son as well and I would have my turn."

"In a bit," Agron promises. "Let me hold you both until those fears you were so right about abate, just a bit."

Nasir huffs out a breath but nods. "Fine. But when it is first time to deal with the mess he makes, the task shall fall to you."

Agron gives a rueful smile then nods. That seems to him a fair bargain. Besides, after a night such as this he feels as if he could give his little family the constellations by reaching into the heavens and plucking them as easily as he would petals from a flower. Such a simple compromise, the first of no doubt many over that will have to be struck in the raising of Fouad, feels like the first of many stars pulled from the sky.


End file.
